


flinch (camren)

by cheapthrll



Category: Fifth Harmony (Band)
Genre: F/F, blah
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-15
Updated: 2015-11-15
Packaged: 2018-05-01 17:43:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5214866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cheapthrll/pseuds/cheapthrll
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your love for her is so much it makes you want to tear your hair out and die a million times.</p>
            </blockquote>





	flinch (camren)

**Author's Note:**

> this is my first fic so i'm so sorry if it's horrible

You don’t like being the underdog. You don’t like other people cracking the whip on you. You are your own boss. But this thing—you can’t even say it, because it makes you sick and it makes you vulnerable and powerless—this love, this emotion that you feel for this person snoozing next to you, it reminds you of sunshine, red balloons, Hallmark greeting cards for Valentine’s Day, Hall and Oates love songs and all that sappy crap and at the same time it makes you sad. This is the thing about loving someone so much they practically have you wrapped around their finger.  
Your love for her is so much it makes you want to tear your hair out and die a million times.  
You’re going insane, that’s for sure.

DYSFUNCTIONAL

That is the word that best describe your relationship.

DISMAL

Another word to describe it.

Dysfunctional yet neither wants to move out of your lair. Neither makes a move to call the ‘relationship therapist’ and book an appointment. Relationship therapist, what a silly term anyway, you thought. Like ‘hair technician’. Or ‘foot doctor’.

“They’re called podiatrists, Camz.’’ She said. It was late—around 3 AM maybe—and you were both hopped up on ice cream and coffee and there’s a humdrum documentary about shoes and dead toenails in that one channel nobody seems to watch. She knows a lot of things.  
  
“Damn son, you know some serious shit.” And with that you received a heartfelt laugh.

Neither wants to let go of each other. You know each other too well that it’s too dangerous to pull the plug that has been keeping all the secrets tacked inside your heads from spilling.

She knows about that one time you huffed spray paint to get high when you were nine.

She knows about that one time you slept with one of your teachers when you were a senior in high school. You told everyone you lost your virginity to a pretentious senior when it was really your English teacher who you fornicated with.

She knows all your good parts. Where to tickle you. Where to kiss you. What to do to make you writhe in pleasure, sending you into that state where you numerously call out the name of gods you sure don’t even believe in.

She knows about that time you almost sell your body for sex.

You know about her shoplifting history.

That time she spat on her boss’s coffee.

About Uncle Ben lifting her skirt in the attic.

She knows about your mental condition and boy, she does love seeing you losing it.

She knows where and when to press and inflict the utmost damage on you. She knows how to lay her hands on your obscured fears. She loves seeing you throwing things against the wall. And whenever that happens, she would look at you, those pretty eyes of hers challenging you to hurl objects within your reach. She loves wrecking you, as much as you secretly love mentioning Uncle Ben’s misdeed on her young and delicate body. It’s evil, you know that, and it makes you feel terrible afterwards but this horrible itch under your skins, you can’t resist scratching it. You both wanted to see your limits, how hard you can push.

***

Monday morning. After taking a bath, you go to the bookshelf and look for books to re-read. It is noontime and you don’t have chores to do anymore, you just want to lie on the floor and get lost in whatever fictional world you’re going to venture in again this time. As you look further, you notice the space between Palahniuk’s Fight Club and Kerouac’s On the Road. Your beat up copy of Murakami’s Sputnik Sweetheart, one of your all-time favourite novels, was supposed to be wedged between Tyler Durden, The Narrator, Sal Paradise and Dean Moriarty. That spot belongs to Sumire, K and Miu. But like Dodos and dinosaurs, the book is gone. You reach out for your cell phone and dial her number. She picks up after the 4th ring.

“Yeah?”  
  
“Where’s Sputnik Sweetheart?”  
  
“Launched in 1957, _sweetheart_. Didn’t you know?”  
  
“Lauren, I am serious, where did you put my book?” You’re not in the mood to goof around.  
  
“Listen, I don’t know where your stupid book is, okay? I have literally tons of fucking documents to proof read now so can we please argue about this later when I come home?”  
You huff out of frustration.  
  
“I am one minute away from ransacking this shittyhole so if you don’t want me disarranging your vinyls, tell me where my fucking book is Lauren.”  
She let out a groan.  
  
“Okay fine. I lent it to George from work, okay? He’ll return it on Saturday. I’m sorry.”  
  
“Without telling me? Lauren that’s my book! ”  
  
“I honestly think you’re overreacting Camila, okay? It’s a beat up copy for fuck’s sake. I don’t wanna fight over a worn ass book.”  
  
And then it stirs the all-too familiar feeling inside you.  
  
“This is – this is not how you treat someone Lauren. You’re supposed to ask for people’s permission! Didn’t they teach that at that fancy university of yours?!” You are now yelling and you don’t even care if The Yangs next door can hear you. You hate her for what she did. And that horrible itch is starting to bother you again.  
  
“I said I’m sorry, okay? Know what Camila, why don’t you go outside and look for a fucking job and make yourself busy. Time to move your fat ass off the couch you pathetic selfish bitch. And take your damn chill pills for fuck’s sake, you’re getting all psycho freak again.”  
There she is, wrecking you again. Here you are, for the nth time, gripping your phone so hard it might shatter into million little pieces.  
  
“Don’t come back here you ass. I don’t wanna see you again.”

__Click._ You wanted to throw things. You wanted to run in the streets and stab people. You are shaking, but you don’t want to get your pills from the medicine cabinet. You despise her for winning the argument. Or for not protesting when you said something about not wanting her to come back. You don’t really know which one makes you angrier. She’s an asshole, anyway. Who cares if she doesn’t come back. The itch, it’s a horrible sensation crawling up your body, but this time it’s different. It’s like being splashed with warm water while sitting on a couch with thorns and spikes protruding from it. You feel relieved but still in pain. Then you drift into a deep slumber with tears forming in your eyes.  
It is around 8 PM when you wake up. The apartment immersed in darkness. The only sound you can hear is the occasional honking of cars passing by your street. You feel empty. Melancholic. There’s a weird sensation in your stomach._

__It has been always like this. You fight. You exchange profanities and threats at the top of your lungs, until your landlord knocks on the door, explaining about the noise complaint one of your neighbors filed. Then either of you walks out, or ends the call abruptly.  
And then you want her back. You always do. Both of you do._ _

__You want her arms wrap around your body. You want to hide yourself in your favourite spot – the angles between her neck and collarbone._ _

__Your tongue longs for the taste of her skin ¬– salty and sweet. You craved for her smell – a mix of papers and air freshener and that Victoria’s Secret perfume you used to hate ‘cause it reminds you so much of that time in college where you ran out of money because your devoted Catholic parents cut you off your allowance after finding out about your secret relationship with a sorority girl named Celine. You were way behind rent and you were too ashamed to borrow money from your roommate. So after bawling your eyes out, your left hand curled around a crumpled list of required textbooks for the semester, you decided to call that sleazy guy from the bar where you and Celine used to hang, finally accepting his job offer. A truly horrid job that requires giving pleasures to perverts in exchange for a few dollars. But it never happened, fortunately. Your grandmother died the following week. You, being her third favourite granddaughter, inherited a fair amount of money, just enough to pay your overdue rent and half of your student loan. Your parents’ presence in your life resumed after you thrashed your school’s library, the result of neglecting your medications for a couple of days._ _

__You craved for that smell that reminds you of dark times and that smell might one day smother you in your sleep but you don’t care, it’ll be a beautiful death, anyway._ _

__Your ears desperately want to hear her say the sets of promises to keep and promises to be break._ _

___Come home.___

____After several seconds, your phone vibrated._ _ _ _

_____I’m on my way.____ _

__________Twenty excruciating minutes passes by before you hear the apartment door opening and closing. Shoes getting discarded, keys being put on the table. Then you feel it, her slender arms creeping on your body, enveloping you. You turn around and bury your head in your favourite spot and everything feels so much better. She kisses your head three times. You rub your thumb against the skin on her hipbone. Those simple gestures say it all:  
  
_I am sorry._  
_I just love you. I just love you so much it hurts._  
_I am so sorry._

_____________You trail kisses up her neck to her jaws and then to her lips – your version of apologizing. You kiss for minutes, tongues darting in out of each other’s mouths. She touches and kisses you in places where you want her the most until it’s too much and you let out whimpers and moans and curses, until you’re seeing stars behind your eyelids. She rests her forehead on yours, then plants another kiss on the tip of your nose – her version of retracting her earlier statement. You kiss some more – long and slow._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________And with that, you forgive each other... for now at least._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________Both of you know that many fights, perhaps much worse than those that happened before, are going to take place in the future, but now, you just want to live in this bliss that is currently happening._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _


End file.
